


Volunteered With Grace

by readymachine



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gore, Resurrection, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 06:33:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5406659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readymachine/pseuds/readymachine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You took her from me,” She yells, dropping her head down to stare into his face, her expression wild. “You took her from me, goddammit, and you will bring her back to me.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Volunteered With Grace

Nights are always the hardest. Lydia dreams of Allison’s hand wrapped tightly in her own, fingers intertwined so hard they could bruise. She runs her thumb over the tough skin of Allison’s knuckles, hard and calloused from her training. For that moment, Lydia forgets. Lydia pretends. She is safe with the huntress beside her.

But then the hand would slick with blood and slip out of her grasp, leaving her alone in the darkness with a name on her lips and a scream in her throat. She tries to hold on with all her might, but every night she fails. Every night she loses Allison again.

. . .

Lydia wakes up to a buzzing phone, red-rimmed eyes squinting in the streaming sunlight as she reaches out. Her head is pounding, her mouth dry. Scott’s face smiles out at her from the screen. Taken during happier times. Lydia presses the “Ignore” button and shoves the device under her pillow. She shuts her eyes tightly against the bright light of morning, pulling the blanket over her head and burrowing her face into the soft fleece. She used to be able to smell Allison’s shampoo against her pillow if she concentrated hard enough. The scent has already faded away. Just like Allison. Just like Lydia.

_. . .C a n y o u h e a r m e L y d i a?. . ._

The phone lets out a solitary muffled beep, vibrating dully underneath her head.

_. . . **Lydia** c a n y o u h e a r m e?. . ._

Lydia exhales slowly, gritting her teeth against the knocking in her skull. Something cracks just behind her cornea. She jams a knuckle into the corner of her eye to try and stop it.

_. . .L y d i a c a n y o u **hear** m e?. . ._

Lydia rips her phone out from under her pillow and opens the most recent unread message sitting in her conversation thread.

**Scott McCall**

**We should talk. Can we meet somewhere? We’re worried about you.**

Lydia huffs. The phone vibrates again.

**Scott McCall**

**Please.**

. . . _L y d i a I ‘ m **scared**. . ._  

Lydia pushes the heels of her hands against her eyes, trying to stop the creaking in her skull.

It doesn’t help.

. . .

Lydia can’t quite remember driving to the sandwich shop on Windham Drive to meet Scott. Time is getting harder and harder to keep track of. Every day is just another day without her. Lydia orders a black coffee, two sugars. It’s Allison’s order. She can’t tell if Scott notices.

“Did you hear me, Lydia?”

Lydia looks up.

“What?”

Scott sighs. He seems frustrated. His hands are clenched neatly around each other on the table in front of him.

“We’re worried about you,” He repeats. “You’ve been distant since…”

“Since your best friend murdered my best friend.”

Scott inhales sharply.

“That wasn’t him,” He says automatically.

Lydia thinks of Stiles’s face clouded with fury and hunger, growling its terrible promises against the shell of her ear. Remembers his arms pinning her against the bricks in the bowels of Eichen. She thinks of the hot knot of fear that blossomed in her stomach, thinks of the sick dread that had settled over her skin. She thinks of the warning she pressed into the window of her car with shaking fingertips. The warning Allison had loved her too much to heed.

“Close enough,” She mumbles, pressing her palm against the hot ceramic of her mug. Her fingers still feel like they’re made of ice.

_. . .L y d i a **Ineedyou**. . ._

“—derstand why you feel this way. We all miss Allison. We all loved Allison.”

“Not like _me_.”

The words escape her before she can stop them. She levels her gaze at Scott, staring unblinkingly into his eyes until he bows his head.

“We _all_ lost her, Lydia. Not just you. You can’t keep pushing us away.”

. . . ** _saveme_**. . .

“I’ve got to go.”

Lydia stands abruptly, her knees knocking the table. Her mug tips, sloshing the dark liquid over the side. It stains the white tablecloth with splotches of brown. Scott reaches across the table, his hand closing over her wrist.

“Lydia.”

Lydia freezes. His skin burns like fire against hers. Lydia forces her lip not to curl.

“We have to talk about this. Allison’s dead, okay? She’s not coming back.”

The tumblers in Lydia’s brain slide into place.

“Peter came back.”

Scott’s hand slides away. His head moves a fraction to the left.

“That was Peter. It was wrong. You remember what he _did_ to come back. What he did to _you_.”

. . . ** _Lydia_** _I ‘ m h e r e s a v e m e. . ._

“But he _came back_ , Scott.”

The key turns. The door hangs ajar.

Lydia heads for the exit. She does not hear what Scott shouts at her. She can’t be bothered to care.

. . .

“You’re going to help me bring someone back from the dead.”

Peter raises an eyebrow and scoffs, leaning forward in his seat.

“Am I?” He drawls.

Lydia flares her nostrils. The bag at her side is too heavy, laden with books stolen from Jennifer Blake’s empty apartment and the tools she will need for her task.

She shifts the strap uncomfortably on her shoulder. There’s a tug somewhere near the base of her skull. Allison laughs, her voice a whisper floating between the folds in Lydia’s brain.

Peter stares up at Lydia, his eyes narrow. Lydia holds her ground.

“Does the Banshee miss her Huntress?” He smirks, steepling his fingers together. “Is the world just too tough all on your own?”

. . . ** _don’t_** _l e t h i m **touchyou**_. . .

“Shut up,” Lydia snaps. Her hand balls into a fist at her side.

Peter chortles and stands, sauntering over to Lydia.

“It wouldn’t work,” He says, crossing his hands over his chest. “She wasn’t like me. Like _us_. She was just a human. A fragile little thing.”

“She was stronger than you.”

“Is that why I’m still here and she bled out?”

. . . _d o n ‘ t **lethim**_. . .

Lydia’s elbow flies up and connects with Peter’s nose. Peter steps back, startled, blood spurting out of his nostrils. He swings instinctively, but Lydia ducks just like Allison told her, jabbing her leg out and kicking Peter’s kneecap. His leg buckles and he goes down with a yell. Lydia surges forward, gripping Peter’s face tightly between her hands. Her nails sink into the flesh around his eyes. She takes a deep breath, feeling her lungs expand tightly against her ribs. A single chord rings out through her mind.

She opens her mouth and screams.

Peter convulses beneath her, yelling unintelligible words that get drowned out beneath her wail. His eardrums burst first. Blood gushes freely from his nose. His eyes roll far up into the back of his head, shaking erratically before they pop inside their sockets, vitreous fluid flowing down his cheeks. Lydia screams until Peter stops moving, his jaw locked open in a scream, his teeth bared. In the ringing silence, she can almost swear she hears Allison laugh.

. . .

It takes Lydia two days of scouring Peter’s library to find the right ritual.

Allison whispers to her, her voice reedy and stilting. Lydia feels like she’s running out of time.

_The tether._

_The sacrifice._

_The bridge._

. . . ** _soon_** L y d i a ** _soon_**. . .

She dumps Peter’s body on the preserve. No one will miss him.

. . .

Stiles is easy to trick. Apparently old crushes aren’t so quick to fizzle.

She ties him wrist to ankle. Allison tells her how. She slumps him over the Nemeton and sets to work ringing the area with mountain ash. She doesn’t want to be interrupted.

“Lydia?”

He struggles with the ropes, flopping awkwardly onto his side. His eyes dart around his surroundings, fear settling over his features when he realizes where he is.

“ _Shh_ , Stiles,” Lydia replies softly. “This will all be over soon.”

“ _What_ will all be over soon? Why did you bring me here?”

Lydia clicks her tongue.

“Always with the _questions_.”

She reaches into her bag and pulls out one of Allison’s Chinese ring daggers, her fingers fitting neatly through the handle.

“I’m going to bring Allison back,” Lydia says, turning towards Stiles. He sees the dagger. In a flash, he understands.

He tries to kick, tries to struggle out of his binds, but Allison is a good teacher and he does not get far. Lydia walks over quickly and seizes him by the neck of his t-shirt, slamming him down on his back and pressing a knee down on his neck to keep him still.

“Sc- _Scott_ —“ He tries to wheeze, desperately trying to turn his head to scan the line of trees. Lydia presses down harder. He gapes as he struggles to breathe.

Lydia brings the dagger up and cuts a slender line across the flesh of her left fingers. The blood wells up immediately, almost black in the dark of the night. She brings the digits down to Stiles’s red face and paints the symbols she has memorized on his forehead. The blood smears with his sweat. This should not matter in the end.

When she’s finished she removes her knee, popping her fingers in her mouth to lick the blood from the wounds. Beneath her, Stiles gasps in air.

“God, _please_ , Lydia, _let me go_!” He screams at her, tears forming at the corners of his eyes and sliding back towards his hair. Anger rises in Lydia’s chest.

“ ** _You took her from me_** ,” She yells, dropping her head down to stare into his face, her expression wild. “You took her from me, god _dammit_ , and you will bring her back to me.”

Stiles is shaking with fear now, eyes shining in the light from the full moon overhead.

They are quiet for a short moment.

Maybe, in that moment, he understands.

She hopes he understands.

She cuts his throat anyway.

. . .

Lydia is careful to follow the instructions. She has been practicing her pronunciation to make sure she gets it right.

Stiles drains slowly, his blood seeping into the cracks of the old wood. His empty eyes stare up towards the sky. Lydia is unsure if she should close them. She decides not to. His shirt has been cut open, pale chest covered in more symbols. They shine an unearthly, deep red.

**_I’MHERELYDIAI’M RIGHT HERE_ **

It’s time.

Lydia brings the knife down hard into Stiles’s chest and yanks, ripping open a large hole in him far easier than should be possible. She reaches down with her arm, bracing herself against the edge of the Nemeton. She makes it up to her shoulder. Her cheek presses into Stiles’s side. Everything smells like blood. Someone screams her name.

Fingers wrap around her wrist.

Lydia finds purchase and pulls.

Allison’s arm emerges, slicked with blood. She grabs Lydia’s shoulder, trying to find balance.

Her head squeezes out next, black hair matted against her skin. Her face is stained red, her mouth popping open as she sucks in her first breath in over a month. She grits her teeth, grunting as she tries to slide herself out of tunnel Lydia had cut through the world. Lydia seizes her under her arms and pulls.

With a final kick, Allison tumbles out and onto Lydia, knocking them both to the forest floor. She is naked and covered in blood and panting with exhaustion. Lydia presses kisses against her cheeks, her lips, her eyelids.

“I’ve got you,” She mummers against Allison’s ear. “I’ve got you, Ally, I’ve got you.”

Allison curls into Lydia’s arms, trembling and nodding. Her gaze snaps up to Stiles’s body, gutted and spread on the stump of the Nemeton. She lets out a sob and buries her face into Lydia’s hair.

**_W H A T H A V E Y O U D O N E ?_ **

Lydia holds her breath at the voice she knew she would hear ringing in her skull. She knew the price. She read the warnings.

And she can stand to listen to Stiles cry forever if it means that Allison is right here next to her.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas Morgan!
> 
> readymachine.tumblr.com


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